


Android X3000

by surrenderdammit



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Alternate Universe, Androids, Drabble, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-31
Updated: 2014-01-31
Packaged: 2018-01-10 17:19:01
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,539
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1162413
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/surrenderdammit/pseuds/surrenderdammit
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“Wait, what? Android? I haven’t bought an Android!”  he spluttered, eying the man – erm, well, Android, apparently – with wide eyes. “I couldn’t afford one anyway!”</p>
            </blockquote>





	Android X3000

**Author's Note:**

> Just something I wrote ages ago, that wouldn't leave my head. Forgot to upload it here lol.

.

John Watson rubbed the morning crust from his eyes and blinked blearily at the blob of dark colours bleeding into shades of pale, waiting for his vision to focus. It was taking longer than it had done not so long ago, before the injury and the fever, the pills and the therapy. He blamed the pills now, the ones which were supposed to help him sleep and let his body catch up. He took them rarely, not a big fan of artificial substances in his system unless it was tea. But he’d taken one last night, after a full week of nightmares overlapped with completely sleepless nights. That’s why it had taken him about three minutes to wake up at the insistent knocking, and a further three or four to locate and slip into a robe before stumbling over to unlock and yank the door open. Which was where he found himself now, trying to focus on whoever had decided it was a good idea to disturb him at 8.30 a Saturday – or was it Sunday? – morning.

What came into focus after a few confused seconds was a tall (very _lean,_ or maybe skinny), pale man dressed in what looked suspiciously like a tailored silk shirt and dress pants. Unruly, dark hair curled around an angular, long face which probably should not be as attractive as it was (shucks), and a pair of sharp eyes (pale blue, or green, he couldn’t decide; it was a matter of the lightening, he decided) met his scrutiny.

“Ah, you seem to have recovered now, sir,” the man observed in a polite but plain voice (again, that should _not_ be so attractive). “If you would sign here, please, sir.”

John blinked at the PADD and electronic pen thrust into his face, the neat print of what seemed like a contract blurring momentarily. Uncomprehending, and sleep slowly being overtaken by annoyance, he narrowed his eyes at the man. “What the hell is this? What do you want?”

“I am the Android X3000 ordered and bought for Doctor John H. Watson, sir,” the man explain, voice still perfectly neutral. John gaped.

“Wait, what? Android? I haven’t bought an Android!”  he spluttered, eying the man – erm, well, Android, apparently – with wide eyes. “I couldn’t afford one anyway!” Which was painfully true, he had to admit, shuffling self-consciously in the doorway in an attempt to block as much of the view of his Spartan room as possible. He thought he saw a spark of amusement in the man’s eyes, before reminding himself it was an _Android_. Well, whatever that meant. He’d never read up on them; human-like robots _designed for various uses for your convenience_ , according to the ads.

“I have been bought as a gift and been instructed to offer myself as such; all you have to do is sign the contract of ownership, sir.” Well, thanks for clearing _that_ up, he thought with a frown. Before he could reply, the man – Android, whatever - continued. “I am from your sister, Harriet.”

“Oh. Okay then,” he said, reaching for the pen, startled. As he put it to the screen though, he frowned. “No, wait, why would she buy me an Android?”

“I am designed to provide intellectual company, sir.”

Well, then. He’ll just get this over with and deal with it later. It was too fucking early for this anyway.

“Bloody hell,” he muttered under his breath, singing the piece of paper with a bit more force than necessary, “so nothing might happen to me but that doesn’t mean you can go and dump something like this on me. Jesus.”

As soon as the signature was completed, the PADD blipped and in an overly-ambitious animated sequence the contract was folded into an envelope and blinked out of existence with the blinking word of “SENT” taking up the screen. Right.

“Um, well, I guess you can come on in then,” he said after moment, during which the man put the PADD away in a shoulder bag that had previously gone unnoticed. The man titled his head, and smiled. John got the impression it was more of a smirk, and couldn’t quite shake the feeling something had just gone wrong. Stepping aside, he gestured for his – what? New companion? – to step inside.

“So, do you have a name?” he wondered as he closed the door behind them, locking it out of habit and following the man until he stopped in the middle of the modest flat, dropping his bag to the floor and giving the room a quick sweep of his eyes which put John in mind of the old sci-fi films where robots had scanners in their eyes and with a flash of fancy light analyzed whatever they were looking at.

“You may call me Sherlock, John. But first things first; we need a new flat.”

John blinked. The neutral, plain tone of voice was gone, replaced by a deep, self-assured rumble, and he noted that there was something different about _Sherlock’s_ (bit of a rare name nowadays) stance as well. Something shaper, less...submissive.

Then his brain caught up with what had been said, even as Sherlock marched to his closet and procured the old beaten suitcase John had yet to fully unpack and dumping it on his bed. “Wait, what? What are you---stop! Hey! Where the fuck is your off switch?!”

As he hung onto Sherlock’s arms in an attempt to drag him away from his suitcase and clothes – the bastard was _packing his stuff_ – he became aware of a difference between them; even without his injury and poor but recovering health, at tip-top military training he would not have been able to bulge the force that was Sherlock. Underneath smooth, warm skin was undeniably a masterwork of steel and wires to which human flesh did not stand a chance.

Bugger.

Changing tactics, John stepped away to reach for his gun (tucked away in the drawer, loaded). He didn’t get far.

“The gun would be useless against me,” Sherlock murmured somewhere by his ear, arm slung around his waist to press him against a chest literally made of steel (and silicone, or whatever it was they used to make it as soft as it was unforgivably hard). John cursed under his breath, muscles stiff in anticipation of whatever might come.

“Relax John, I’m not going to hurt you unless you give me a reason to.” _That wasn’t very reassuring._ “I realize you must be wondering what’s happening,” _no shit,_ “and I’d be happy to explain if you would be a good man and stay still for a bit. Can you do that, hm?” _You condescending bloody git_ \--- he took a deep breath and let it out through his nose, slowly, relaxing a bit. Fine. Bloody fine; he’d have to figure out another way; at least the wanker seemed possible to reason with.

“Let’s hear it then,” he bit out, turning around as he was freed to glare at the now openly smirking man – robot, Android, crazed machine – _whatever_.

“Good man!  Well, let’s be quick, shall we? I promised Mrs Hudson we’d come by the flat by 10,” he began, clapping his hands together eagerly. “Your sister did buy you an Android, she just didn’t buy you _me_ , although that was easily fixed. It took me a while to find someone like you; clever, accomplished and with less likelihood of being as dreadfully dull as most humans tend to be. Of course, there are more factors I’ve taken into consideration, but you don’t need to know those. Not significant at the moment.

 And yes, well, once I took the place of the original purchase – a C1000, really, your sister has no sense; such rubbish – it was simply a matter of adjusting the contract. Which you signed, and which has been sent, registered and filed; all completely legal, I’m afraid, no backing out of this John Watson.”

With a condescending swirl of his finger, Sherlock smirked and turned back to his task of packing up the modest amount of belongings John kept. Blinking furiously, mouth opening and closing in his search for words, John wondered what the fuck he had just signed himself up to, and cursed himself for not reading the prints, let alone the fine prints. He never read the Terms of Service, just clicked “I accept”, and it had never gotten him into any trouble before. Bloody hell. It would be just his bleeding luck to end up with a crazed Android a la iRobot on his doorstep. What was his problem anyway?

“Well, _someone_ is malfunctioning, all right,” he muttered, turning to make himself a strong cuppa in a vain hope of turning back and finding his flat as empty as it had always been, the recent developments being mere drug-induced hallucinations. Oh his therapist will have a field day. He wondered if he should update his blog and warn mankind that they were going to be taken over by an Android gone completely bonkers, or if that would work against him.

Either way, he mused while forgoing milk in favour of a more concentrated dose of caffeine, he probably should’ve paid more attention to the infomercials on Androids.

Bloody bonkers, indeed.

.


End file.
